


Unfurl

by gigiree



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigiree/pseuds/gigiree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marianne shows a hesitant Bog that he can bloom too. Fluff, fluff and more fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfurl

In a surprising but not altogether unexpected way, Marianne was not one to fawn over the coming of spring. When others in the court and through the Light Fields welcomed the blooming of the flowers and the lengthening arcs of the sun, she simply gave a small smile of acknowledgment, content in knowing that everything was as it should be, as expected, as hoped for, as scheduled.

There was no anticipation there.

And it wasn’t winter or summer or fall that she preferred either.

No. Marianne loved the in-betweens.

There lay the possibilities, the dreams, and the makings of all things great and wonderful and terrible.  

The transition of seasons was exactly that; the mixture of russets to silver and gray when the seasons shifted from Autumn to Winter, or the crepuscular array of golden summer grasses and pink, purple, orange spring blossoms just at the zenith of their blooming, poised at the pinnacle of a brilliant existence in that odd space between Spring and Summer and time.

She loved most of all the in-between of Winter and Spring, where the cold and wet browns and grays were made all the more stark with the young, fresh greens of new sprouts and the buds of the first few blossoms were so cozily curled to perfection, just biding their time…waiting.

That was what she loved best.

There was a balance present, a teetering, tottering thing of such fragile equilibrium, that she felt her heart race just as she traced the thin veins and delicate petals of the new buds, coaxing and singing, gently encouraging them to bloom into anything they so desired.

And then, when the last threads of misty frost and white crystals faded from view and the petals began to unfurl, that was the season she anticipated the most. She would wait by the side of an arbitrary bud, her lithe form coiled and tensed, wings ever so slowly opening at the pace of the blossom, unfurling softly into petals of deep purples and patterns.

And she did it all without even knowing.

“Did you see that?!” She turned excitedly to Bog, a large smile flowering across her face, brown eyes melting into honey.

“Uh…ermm…” Bog shifted a bit nervously, lacing his long fingers together, tapping them one by one.

Marianne recognized the gesture, and with a patience born from waiting for so many things..

_Waiting for blooms, waiting for understanding, waiting for similarity, waiting for change, waiting for love, waiting for.._

“Booog!”

The drawn out reprimand was half-hearted, her tone a recipe of one teaspoon exasperation, one cup understanding, and at least three liters of affection.

“Ah…sorry Marianne, dear….I was just…just….”

And again he moved, wings buzzing once, then twice… his back hunching over in that oh so familiar stance of discomfort, and shyness. His blue, blue eyes peered from underneath his quickly shifting brow and his fingers made that click clack sound they always did when he was caught.

The one teaspoon of exasperation became diluted by an added cup of endearment, because he was just so darn charming in his every move, that Marianne found it difficult to do anything but laugh.

“Just what?” She asked past her silent laughter, wings fanning swiftly to close the unwanted distance between them.

“I was just…watching…” And his answer trailed off into a series of muttered syllables, just as intriguing as any newly blooming flower.

“Just watching?”

Her tone was soft, coaxing and caressing. Just as it had been with the flowers.

Then tiny hands reached to trace the lines in his cheeks, the ones curling and curving around and over and under the small flecks of hard shell. Marianne hummed softly, running the tips of her fingers through and up and down, feeling the just as-it-should-be, as-expected, as-hoped-for, and just-as-scheduled warmth that was so familiar to her.

Bog sighed, a soft breath that rattled like dead, dry leaves in his throat and trembled in his tall frame, falling softly like wilting petals. Mossy, earthy undertones and scents that she loved and recognized as home and hearth surrounded, and even in the brightness of this border between the Light Fields and the Dark Forest, Marianne felt all the thrill of a beautiful balance.

“Just watching?”

She repeated softly and breathlessly in anticipation, feeling as if she were watching a new-born bud bloom beautifully, brilliantly, belovedly….

He sighed again, shoulders heaving and shuddering.

“I was just…watching ye bloom too.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and then she saw that apprehension in his eyes, the same fear that sparked anew everytime he stepped from his realm and into a transition. Everytime he stood on a precipice and he looked down at the fall, when he could be looking up at the flight.

And then he waited.

_Waited for failure, for rejection, for realization that he wasn’t good enough, that he was too hard and too spiky to bloom into anything but a thorn bush._

Instead what he received was a peppering of kisses so sweet and tasting of sunbeams and roses and all that he had never contemplated waiting for before.

And then, she pushed and prodded, interspersing her movements with gentle kisses and caresses until they were in the shade of a willow, and the moist ground beneath his feet and the familiar coolness of the humidity against his skin and hers let him know they were now closer to his side of the border.

When they were sufficiently enough covered in shade and ensconced in the wide, craggy roots of the old willow tree, Marianne grinned a smile so mischievous and filled with anticipation, that he was no longer reminded of spring blooms, but rather of cool dark ferns curled and waiting…waiting to be unfurled…

“You bloom too, you know that?” She whispered, her words brushing and blowing softly, like the remnants of a warm summer breeze on a cold autumnal day.

And then his cheeks flushed pink in that  _oh so_  telling way, and Marianne thought they looked adorably like rose petals with the veiny lines and pale coloring.

But she didn’t think Bog would appreciate the observation.

Instead, she slid her hands around him, he waited, coiled with apprehension and unknowing as to what exactly Marianne planned.

He realized too late what she meant to do.

He felt it as soon as her fingers walked a line up from the base of his spine, up and up until she hit that oh so delicate space in between his wings. Her nails traced the fine grooves, click clack, and in a moment so intense and blinding, that for once Bog wasn’t looking down over the precipice, his back curled inward and he shuddered.

When his trembling had stopped, Marianne pressed a conciliatory kiss to his neck and pulled away to smile teasingly at him.

“See? you can bloom too.”

And then they continued their unfurling in a manner most expected, underneath the shade and dappled by sunlight. 


End file.
